


safe at harbor

by Bloodsbane



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Issues, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Retroactive Consent, Somnophilia, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: Peter finds him in the apartment. It’s a small place Peter rents, not much at all, but he’s hardly there anyway. It’s mostly convenient for storage space and an address, when he needs one. Lately, it’s been most useful for the bed.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	safe at harbor

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: the tags of this fic have been slightly updated. I've added Consensual Non-Consent, which is a concept I've become more familiar with since writing this. I do think it fits, but I'll be keeping the pre-existing tags as well as the archive warning. In a way, the fic leaves the level of pre-established consent up to you to decide. 
> 
> CWs:   
> > peter starts touching/messing with/having penetrative sex with martin while he's asleep - at no point is verbal consent given. martin is fine with it afterwards, but he's surprised when he wakes up in the middle of it. 
> 
> terms used for martin are clit, cunt/hole, folds

Peter finds him in the apartment. It’s a small place Peter rents, not much at all, but he’s hardly there anyway. It’s mostly convenient for storage space and an address, when he needs one. Lately, it’s been most useful for the bed.

He gave Martin a key ages ago; can’t recall why, exactly — it was before they started sleeping together. Had he sent the younger man on an errand? Was it in case of emergencies? Peter can’t even remember if it was in service of his plans or something more genuine. Maybe he’d known, even then, that Martin would need it, that he should have it.

Whatever the case, it meant that Martin could get in when Peter was off on his trips. And so he’s here now. Four weeks worth of sea salt clings to Peter’s coat, his boots, left at the entryway. The apartment is quiet but for the sound of a living presence, loud enough that Peter knows before he sees the shape of Martin in his bed, or hears him breathing. 

The thing about Martin: he doesn’t hurt as much as everyone else. Peter remembers the lad mentioning, once, that he could get a little claustrophobic, and Peter thinks he can relate. Nothing like the Buried, not quite in approaching the territory of earth and stone and the fear of heavy dark. It’s more how people feel, to him, like a physical force, their mere existence a pressure trying to squeeze the life out of Peter. Always pushing, prodding. Always too much. 

But Martin. The feeling of Martin is just enough to fill a portion, to give shape to space in a room. He doesn’t intrude on Peter. More often, the opposite is true. It’s fun, he’s found, being a _force_. 

This is not the first time he has discovered Martin in his bed, but it is the first time Peter’s been on such a long trip since the particulars of their working relationship took an interesting turn. Peter stands at the foot of the bed and feels himself grow warmer at the sight of Martin. His hair, long and light-brown, looks soft on the dull pillows. He’s sleeping flat on his back, head turned slightly away from the pitiful grey light trying to creep in through Peter’s blinds. His mouth is just the slightest bit ajar and Peter can hear him snoring faintly. 

He doesn’t quite understand this. What is it about Martin that chases the cool ocean breeze away, yet leaves it within reach? Peter does not yearn for it, because he can hear it in Martin’s every sigh. The taste of the empty sea lies on that pale skin. Peter puts a knee at the foot of the bed and stares, palming himself through his trousers. Martin does not react at all as Peter pulls away the blanket to observe him. 

He’s wearing Peter’s clothes. Stolen from the closet, where there’s little to offer but work trousers and old, worn long-sleeves. Binder absent, Peter can see Martin’s nipples against the over-washed pale blue of the shirt. 

After removing his trousers, Peter climbs up until he’s seated next to Martin, until he can see the way he breathes, feel his warm body. Peter gives in to the urge to touch, feeling all at once the four weeks of time and distance between them, slipping his hand beneath the hem of that borrowed shirt and resting his palm on Martin’s stomach.

The man doesn’t wake up, barely moves, only hums. Peter can feel the way he shivers, just slightly, under his touch. An unconscious reaction. What would Martin do now, if he was conscious? Peter slowly, carefully rubs his hand across Martin’s stomach, trying to warm it up with the man’s body heat. He’s determined not to find out, not for some time yet. 

When he deems his hand warm enough, he slips it beneath Martin’s pants, groping gently. Martin takes a deep breath but does not wake. Peter lets his finger tease at Martin’s clit, just barely applying pressure. With his free hand, he pulls the trousers off and away, then pries Martin’s legs apart. It’s amazing to Peter how much he’s already gotten away with. Do humans always sleep this deeply? He can’t remember; he hardly sleeps nowadays, and he never had dreams, so it always felt like it went by so quickly. Martin appears to be a decently heavy sleeper, but Peter doesn’t push his luck. Despite his own arousal urging him to take what he wants, he delights in the game of it, and so he works slowly. 

Minutes pass, one by one, as Peter rubs against Martin, dips down to wet his finger and then gently pries those folds apart. Martin’s cunt is so hot beneath Peter’s fingers, and all the while he gets wetter. Peter dares to slip one finger into Martin’s hole, just the tip, and he relishes the sound Martin makes then. It’s barely a whimper, more an exhale than anything, but tinged with unmistakable pleasure. More than almost anything, Peter has developed an inexplicable fondness for Martin’s voice. At times like these, it can drive him mad with lust, and it has been a long four weeks. 

Soon enough, he’s able to put his whole finger in, slowly pumping in and out while his thumb works Martin’s clit. Gradually, one becomes two, and it’s truly agonizing, trying to work the man open without waking him, both dreading and relishing every sharp intake of breath, every shuddery moan Martin lets slip in his sleep. Once, he shifts, closing his legs and trying to turn away from Peter to lay on his side. Peter follows along with the motion, two fingers deep inside and unable to move for fear of waking him. Now, hand trapped between Martin’s thighs, Peter adjusts so that he’s leaning on his free elbow, looming just slightly over Martin. 

Peter pumps his thick fingers in and out, careful, hungry for more but unwilling to lose this little game. Still, he can’t resist shifting closer to Martin, letting his cock press against the man’s backside. He rests his chin on Martin’s shoulder and closes his eyes, taking in the sounds and smells, the feeling of Martin under his hand. He has never in his life been so compelled by the body of another person, has never wanted to be one with the space they occupy. Now he delves as deeply into Martin as he can with his fingers, even grows so bold as to try for a third, and is only stopped when the man beneath him gives a clear moan and shudder and Peter freezes. 

Somehow, still, Martin does not wake. He merely squirms, and Peter wonders with no small amount of pleasure if Martin is dreaming of this. Does he know it’s Peter’s fingers stretching him open? Does he know it’s Peter kissing his shoulder, his neck? With fierce delight, Peter steals another weak moan from Martin and decides he’s had enough waiting. He withdraws his hand and finally removes Martin’s underwear, then his own. 

With great reluctance, Peter draws back, giving Martin a moment to settle back down into slumber. Peter watches the way Martin unconsciously rubs his thighs together, humming just under his breathe, arousal tinging his voice. Once his breath is more even, Peter gently pulls his legs apart once more and positions himself between them. Taking hold of his cock, he gives himself a few strokes, taking a moment relish the sight of Martin spread out for him like this, rosy-cheeked and panting. Peter rubs Martin’s folds with the head of his cock, spreading the wetness, hinting at what’s to come. Martin’s breathing is shallow, now, peppered with adorable whimpers that start in his chest and climb up his throat, like little questions, and Peter is ready to answer. 

What Peter really wants is to push himself in with no restraint, dive deep into that heat and feel Martin the way he craves most, go hard and fast and take what he needs. But he can’t help imagining how sweet it would taste, to coax Martin awake with his cock, to let Martin have just a moment of recognition color those eyes before Peter really starts to fuck him. And so he is careful, he presses in slowly and massages Martin’s thighs and watches the way he breathes, hyper-aware of every sound Martin makes. 

When Peter is halfway in, Martin takes an unexpectedly sharp breathe, and Peter pauses. Then, after a second, rocks his hips just a bit, pressing in a little deeper, and it’s beautiful to watch Martin gasp, to watch his lashes flutter open for just a second. 

Martin lets out a long, deep breath, like a gasp, and opens his eyes properly. They’re half-lidded and still cloudy with sleep. For a second, Peter doubts Martin has any idea what’s happening. But seeing him like this is enough, and Peter can’t hold himself back anymore. He leans forward until he’s on Martin, kissing him deeply, gripping his wrists in his hands. When he pulls away, Martin looks just as dazed, but there’s a look of realization on his face now, striking Peter to his core with satisfaction. “...Peter?”

Peter answers with his hips, pushing himself all the way in, and the sound Martin makes is sure to haunt him even in the Lonely. It’s as honest and desperate a sound as he has ever heard anyone make, loud and shuddering like a window against a storm. Martin’s body instinctively curls in, his knees trapping Peter between them, arms trying to grip the man back, but he’s already pinned to the bed and Peter does not relent. He feels himself begin to meld into Martin’s space, twisting the pressure until it is his own, pushing back, and it’s terrifying and intoxicating, so Peter buries his face in Martin’s neck and fucks him. 

Martin cries out with every thrust, his voice sharp and trembling in a way that’s strange and new and wonderful. Peter does not know others, just as no one has ever known him, but he thinks he has seen enough of Martin to appreciate the novelty of what he’s hearing. The man’s voice is raw and bright and unabashed, honest in a way that would usually embarrass Peter, make him uncomfortable, make him want to disappear from a room and try to forget that he was part of such a vulnerable moment. But it’s _Peter_ coaxing these sounds from Martin, demanding them, coveting them. The way Martin moans and writhes beneath him is delicious, and Peter’s heart beats every time he hears his name fall from those lips like a plea, or perhaps an exaltation. 

It doesn’t take long. Peter spent nearly half an hour working them up to this, and he knows Martin is close when he has no words left, only heavy gasps and sobs. Peter’s grip tightens on Martin’s wrists as he comes, filling Martin up, feeling Martin tremble in response. Peter feels their warmth and wetness overflow, and is all too satisfied. 

Martin is sniffling and wiping away tears when Peter sits up, just enough to look at Martin without pulling out. Peter chuckles and uses his thumb to swipe one off Martin’s cheek. The man beneath him attempts a glare, but there’s no way such a thing could be effective after _that_. 

Peter hums, pleased, and moves his hips just enough to coax another whimper from Martin. “Did you miss me?” Peter asks, his voice low and rough from disuse. 

Martin doesn’t answer, not with his words anyway. He merely gives Peter a look, which is more than enough. No one looks at Peter anymore. Maybe no one ever had, really. But Martin does. It should scare him — it does scare him. But then Martin sighs, sounding exasperated yet fond in a way that shouldn’t be possible, and pulls Peter in for a hug. He even pulls his legs up, hooking his heels behind Peter’s waist and tugging him closer, pulling him in deeper, and Peter can’t help but wonder which one of them has really been caught. 


End file.
